lonely hearts club
by Bluestocking Inc
Summary: As the clock begins to strike twelve, he dreams of red hair. Post-Ponds. Character study of the Doctor, with an emphasis on the madman part of his title.


_Warning: This is written (mostly) in lowercase. Other grammar rules have been followed to the best of my ability._

* * *

time is a fickle thing, in the tardis; sometimes it moves too quick, whispering stories of girls and boys he hasn't yet met, children that will do magical things when allowed the chance. or it moves too slow, telling tales of queens and kings that died so long ago he can hardly remember them, except in the moments that he can. and he doesn't like to dwell on those moments.

but sometimes-like when he's feeling especially melancholy or lonely-it will stagnate.

it is not a choice of his. he is like fire, or a storm rolling over open prairie-lingering is death. he must constantly be moving, changing, rearranging himself, or he fears that he would cease to exist entirely. no, this belongs only to her, and those she thought of as especially refreshing or new.

it begins slowly. a laugh, heard distantly and shrilly and completely, utterly wrong. but he recognizes it as hers immediately, because who else snorts like a dying pig when she should be feeling amusement?

but the tardis is grasping like he is, searching for something to remember, something to single her out from the thousands of people he has seen and will see. something to make her special, to make her memorable, to make her his, even though she isn't and never was. and so he begins to see bright red in the corner of his vision. whipping, flipping, shaking with laughter, a brighter crimson than her ginger could ever be. there is nothing about it that screams mad, that screeches impossible, but she is there in the very life of the thing.

it is out of focus, as if the memories themselves fraying around the edges. he knows it is because he is an old man and he can only remember so much, but, oh, how he wishes it wasn't true.

and it only gets worse from there; she is always beside him, asking questions and looking amused. laughing at him, laughing with him; it all blends together after a while. she is his constant shadow, his ghost girl, the scarlet letter that no one but him can see. he is dreadfully alone, but she is his faithful companion, following him wherever he goes. always ready with a snide comment for him to laugh at before he catches himself, and then it is worse.

he is tinkering uselessly with the tardis engine. "are you ignoring me?"

"studiously."

"why? are you cross with me?" she's already got her argument voice on, the playfully angry tones that are frightfully familiar and achingly distorted.

"only a little. and i really shouldn't be." he turns to explain further, but she has disappeared into sweet smelling smoke, nothing but the illusion of a madman.

he turns back to the cursed machine that is causing this, and sighs.

* * *

it is a month since she left, and he has not left the tardis in thirty-one days.

he has long since given up on trying to get rid of her. she is a permanent fixture in his life, more eternal than she ever could have been when she was actually present. she is fiery and perfect and Pond, in all of the ways she should be, but there is an emptiness about her that hangs above them like a dark cloud. she is funny when she would be and comforting when she wouldn't be and constant like neither of them could be.

but she is not her. and a month later, he is still achingly aware of it.

there are shades of those who came before. she speaks logically like romana, smirks like ace, and kisses like rose. it's wrong and wicked, but he enjoys it, in that part of himself that he despises.

the tardis lands. she looks heartbreakingly animated at the idea of a new adventure. her smile is wide and thrilled, questioning, trusting that her doctor has something exciting planned for the day.

he shakes his head and tells her to stay here.

she pouts. "don't be long!"

giving up on a new world is completely unlike her in every way, and it gives him the extra boost of confidence he needs to do what needs to be done.

it is five years after he left them on the doorstep of their home, and snow covers the park across the street. it's springtime. the last of the snow is beginning to melt, and flowers are blooming, always tentative in their attempts at life.

he can not see their faces; only two black silhouette through lace curtains. it's better this way, he reasons. you don't need to bother them. she is either laughing or crying, half bent over and throwing a shadow of spice at his face. her husband returns the favor. he smiles a little.

yes. it's much better this way.

it is then that he sees her. she comes to the window, carrying a lit candle, still laughing a little to herself. she sets it down, smiling contentedly. her hair is the same bright scarlet, and her face is not distorted with the features of other companions. she is perfectly, blessedly herself.

perfectly, blessedly Amy.

she looks up from the flames and meets his eyes across the street. she is surprised. happy. and immediately calls for her husband.

he waves, a solitary, free thing, and disappears into his time machine.

she is not there.

at some point, he will be okay with that.

* * *

_Reviews, prompts, questions, suggestions, and corrections are all welcome. I try to respond to them, even if it's just a few words. Thank you for taking the time to read this! Have a nice day._


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